5. Alejandro

The streets were quiet when we arrived. Too quiet. My car rolled through the dimly lit alleyways, tires whispering over wet asphalt, the city’s heartbeat oblivious to the storm I carried within me. Ibram and Leandro flanked me, silent, lethal、brothers forged in blood, bred to obey without question, ready to execute the judgment I had already decreed in my mind.

We reached the house too late. The door hung crooked, splintered wood where it had been kicked in. The stench hit me first: metallic, coppery, sharp. A warning I should have expected, yet nothing could prepare me for the sight that followed.

Inside, chaos reigned in frozen horror. Furniture overturned, shattered glass littering the floor like crystalline blood. Walls bore the scars of violence, a blunt force, scratches, and streaks of crimson. And then, the bodies. The men who had dared touch my family lay twisted, grotesque, their final expressions carved in terror and disbelief. I did not pause to catalog them. They were irrelevant. Then I saw her.

Camila, my wife. Her face was swollen, bruised, the faintest trace of blood still clinging to the corner of her lips. Her eyes were wild, haunted, vacant and met mine. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of us, and I felt something deeper than anger. A primal, gnawing fury that eclipsed every lesson, every calculated restraint I had ever learned.

“Alejandro…” she whispered, voice trembling, cracking under the weight of pain and horror. But I heard none of it. Because I had already shifted beyond reason.

“Stay behind me,” I ordered Ibram and Leandro, my voice low, cold, sharpened steel. My hands clenched around the pistol, my custom blade strapped to my side, the tools of my trade vibrating with my intent. I moved forward, each step deliberate, predatory.

The men responsible, cowards hiding behind shadows, found me first. They did not recognize the devil who had returned home. They saw a man they thought they could intimidate, and I allowed them that illusion. Then I struck.

It was methodical and brutal. Hands snapped, throats slit, skulls cracked against walls, blood spraying like ink across pristine surfaces. The screams were sweet, broken notes of acknowledgment that I existed, that I was wrath incarnate. I did not pause. I did not hesitate. I did not falter. Each strike, each kill, each exhaled breath of rage fed the furnace that had been lit by Lana’s absence.

And still, it was not enough.

Because when I finally reached the room at the back, I found him. The one who had orchestrated the horror. Nikolai was gone, of course. He always was. Ibram and Leandro understood the unspoken command: this hunt would not end until the Vassiliou sat shackled, broken, or dead. But the damage was irreversible.

Lana.

My heart froze. I had not yet seen her. I had imagined the scene in my mind a thousand times, but nothing prepared me for reality. Her small body lay crumpled, bruised beyond recognition, her innocence stolen, her life extinguished in a way that was cruelly poetic. A single hand reached upward, the tiny fingers curled as though seeking mine, seeking protection I had failed to provide.

I fell to my knees beside her, the world around me narrowing into red, black, and white. Rage coiled tight in my chest, twisting, burning, a storm no man could weather. I touched her cheek, cold and unyielding, and felt the emptiness that replaced the warmth I had always taken for granted.

“Lana…” I whispered, voice breaking, though no one could hear. There was no salvation here, no mercy, only consequences. And the consequence, the living reminder of human frailty and the audacity of my enemies, had been taken from me.

Camila knelt beside her, rocking back and forth, muttering incoherently. Her bloodied hands pressed against her chest as if she could will Lana back through sheer force. The sight should have been unbearable, yet it fueled something darker, sharper inside me. I did not mourn, not yet. I did not plead. I did not cry. I had work to do.

I rose slowly, my brothers flanking me, their expressions mirroring my own fury. My eyes scanned the room, cataloging every wound, every sign, every trace of intrusion. Nikolai Vassiliou would pay, and he would pay in a manner that would etch this moment into his very soul.

“Move her,” I ordered, voice low, lethal. “Camila stays with Levi, you bring her home. Ibram and Leandro cover all exits. Anyone who survived? Kill them.”

It was simple. Efficient. Brutal. And still, my fury simmered beneath the surface, barely contained. This was not revenge. Not yet. This was preparation. This was a prelude to annihilation.

Camila looked at me, eyes wide, hollow. “Alejandro…” she whispered again, voice ragged. Her hands trembled violently. I saw the first flicker of madness creeping back, and I allowed it. She deserved the grief. She deserved the pain. And I would harness it.

Every instinct I had honed: the calm calculation, the cold precision, the unyielding dominance, was now sharpened to a point of obsession. Nikolai had crossed a line. He had taken what could never be returned. And he would learn, in the most intimate and inescapable way, that Alejandro Cortes did not forgive, did not forget, and did not lose.

I turned my attention to the house itself. Broken glass, overturned furniture, and blood trails became my map. Every sign, every smear, every note of chaos whispered the path he had taken. And I would follow it. Step by step, strike by strike, I would dismantle his world as he had tried to dismantle mine.

The sun had set completely. The city slept, indifferent. But in the shadows, I was awake. Alive. Predatory.

I looked once more at Lana, at the broken innocence that had been stolen, and a cold certainty took hold. Nikolai Vassiliou could be found. And when I did… he would understand the weight of his arrogance, the futility of his ambition, and the terror of facing a man who had nothing left to lose.

Because I was no longer just Alejandro Cortes, mafia don, master of empire and empire-building, predator of men. I was a father scorned, a husband enraged, and a devil unleashed.

And Nikolai, my adversary, my reflection, my challenge, he would soon discover what it truly meant to confront the wrath of a man who had lost everything yet remained unbroken.

The hunt had begun.